Final Problem Post-Scrip
by KaseyJ
Summary: Sherlock's apology to Molly becomes more than they expected


He stood outside her door for a moment collecting his thoughts. He'd been so busy rectifying the other situation that he'd not had sufficient time to calculate how this moment would go. It was necessary — he knew it. There was no question that a discussion was in order. But there was this nagging in his mind… a generalized unease he couldn't reconcile. What fostered his continued hesitation?

He had it all planned: He'd show up, apologize, say all the right words, and then they'd go on as they had before… it was clean, logical. It would work just fine…of course, just how he'd planned.

He was in control.

"He knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Her voice called from inside the flat

He opened the door and peered through, she was feeding Rosamund in the kitchen; making funny faces and baby noises. He walked in and stood in the entry. She turned, smiling.

But her face fell when she saw him. "Oh hi, Sherlock." She hesitated. "I thought you were John."

He registered her reaction and tried not to let it bother him. He motioned to the baby, "You have Rosamund today."

She nodded. "Yes, John had some people he needed to meet with, so I said I'd watch her. No cases at Bart's today." She put the baby food down on the counter and began to wipe Rosamund's rotund cheeks. The baby splattered peas all over high chair with her fat palms as Molly attempted to clean her up.

"Can I help?" He removed his coat and walked to the kitchen, looking for a paper towel.

"Uhm, okay sure. If you could just get that towel wet and hand it to me."

He did as directed and watched Molly finish wiping the baby's face.

"Do you want to hold her a minute?" She turned to him. "While I clean up the chair and the kitchen?"

He hesitated. Babies were not his area. But he nodded and rolled up his sleeves, reaching out to take Rosamund while Molly sanitized the high chair.

Bouncing the baby in his left arm he watched Rosamund's large blue eyes (Mary's eyes) inspect him suspiciously. He'd not been around much to care for her — at least not as much as he would have liked. Small people were somewhat of a mystery to him and he was not confident in his ability to manage irrational infants; plus, John's justified displeasure of late had limited his interaction with Rosamund.

'Thank goodness for Molly,' Sherlock thought.

There was another knock at the door and John walked in. He stopped at the sight of Sherlock holding his daughter and looked questioningly at Molly.

She didn't acknowledge his query. "Hi John. How were your visits? It didn't take as long as you thought?" John nodded and walked over to Sherlock, who handed him Rosamund without any resistance.

"Yes, uhm, thanks Molly. It all went well." He looked directly at Sherlock, challenging him silently. "You know, stuff about the will and all that. Mary didn't have any family, but she did have resources that she'd acquired from her years of private work."

Sherlock noticed the look but had no response. He'd come over, just as John had told him to, and was now ready to apologize, just as John said he should. Why the look?

"It's all now in Rosamund's name. I created a trust for her." John turned to Molly. "Thank you for taking her, I couldn't have managed otherwise. Mrs. Hudson offered to watch her, but I'm always afraid Rosamund will come home with a love of black coffee and rock music."

Molly laughed.

'Oh, thank goodness for Molly,' Sherlock thought again.

"Mrs. Hudson is an angel, John. The three of us should have tea soon," she said.

Sherlock noticed the dis-invitation.

John nodded. "That would be lovely. I'll phone you. Maybe we could meet at that street cafe in Westminster? They have a quiet place in the back we could chat without Rosie bothering anyone. Right, sweetie?" he cooed at the baby. Turning away from Sherlock, John took Rosamund in one hand, and attempted to pick up the chair with the other.

"I'll help you John." Sherlock picked up the chair and walked quickly behind as John took Rosamund to the car. He closed Molly's door behind him.

Once outside, John turned sharply. "What are you doing?"

"I came to apologize, just like you told me to!" Sherlock responded, still not understanding John's frustration. "When I showed up she was feeding Rosie. I didn't mean to intrude on your pseudo-family moment."

John sniffed. "Don't do that, Sherlock. Don't make me the villain here."

"I didn't realize there was a villain, but I guess I should have known better. In the absence of Mycroft, I am always the next logical choice."

John snapped Rosamund in her car seat with a scowl.

"What exactly have I done?" Sherlock asked, standing without his coat on the curbside.

"Just be careful," John stood looking at him. "Molly is a good person."

"Of course she is a good person. That's why I'm here." Sherlock replied.

"She loves you, Sherlock. This isn't a game. You cannot just show up here unannounced and think that after one little apology she is going to laugh it off and then you'll go grab chips together and forget it all."

Sherlock was silent. That is exactly what he thought.

John could see he was perplexed. "Remember when you showed up, after two-years of being dead and thought I'd just be thrilled to see you?"

Sherlock shifted on the cold cement. He was missing his coat. "I admittedly miscalculated on that one, John, and I was hoping we had moved passed it at this point." His remorse was genuine.

"Yes, well. Molly has put up with a lot from you over the years Sherlock, and like the rest of us, she still loves you for some reason. Just, when you go in there … just… be aware that she deserves… "

"What?" Sherlock asked, quite honestly.

John sputtered slightly, "She deserves the truth Sherlock. The truth about how or what or if you can actually feel. She deserves to know."

"I planned to tell her exactly what happened and that I am truly sorry."

John shook his head, "No, that's not it. She doesn't care what happened and she really doesn't care how sorry you are. Just like I didn't care how you faked your death — I cared _why_. She's not concerned about the latest case we ran together… She wants to know if you love her back, Sherlock. She wants to know if you meant what you said."

Sherlock stood silently, contemplating John's words.

That was it. That was the catch in his mind.

He'd told Molly he loved her.

He'd whispered it in that dark cell in Sherrinford. He'd looked at her on that screen, cutting lemons in her kitchen, and he'd told her he loved her.

"Just…" John held up his keys and motioned at his friend. "Just don't miss an opportunity to be… "

"Be what?"

"I don't know… human? Don't go in there and tell her that saying you love her was a mistake — that you didn't mean it. Don't apologize for how you feel and make her apologize for how she feels." John motioned to Rosamund. "Don't miss out on a chance to love someone because you are afraid it will make you hurt." He caught his breath and looked straight ahead, down the narrow London street. "It will make you hurt," he sighed looking at his reflection in the car window. "But it's worth it."

Sherlock had no answer. John shook his head, "I've got to go. Call me tomorrow." He tucked into his car and drove off.

Sherlock stood, watching as he turned the corner and vanished into the evening fog. Tentatively, he turned and walked back to Molly's door. He hesitated, then knocked again.

There was no answer.

He knocked slightly louder.

Molly opened the door; she was holding his coat. She held it out to him without saying a word.

He studied her intently. Her slight build, sharp cheekbones, soft brown hair that she always pulled back. Her narrow nose and lips. Sherlock could instantly tell you the height and weight of a cadaver on a gurney from ten feet away; he knew whether the ticket taker on the Tube had showered that morning; and what color Mrs. Hudson's underwear was most likely to be based on the day of the week, but so much about Molly remained a mystery - or at least he hadn't made sufficient effort to deduce her story. Standing there, he noticed the richness of her eyes. Sometimes, when she was angry, they looked deep brown with flashes of red and gold. But now, in the light of the approaching dusk, they were a translucent sepia - like that found in old photographs when all the color has faded away. Maybe that was only fitting, since Molly's eyes saw everything, perhaps her vision provided a unique picture window of the world. She saw what was left after everything else had faded away. She was like John in that way. They could always see right through him. He noticed her cheeks were beginning to tinge with color from the stepping into the brisk evening air. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly as she made a small smile, still holding his coat in her outstretched hand.

"You forgot this," she said hesitantly, wondering why he just stood there, looking at her.

Her small shoulder was sagging slightly under the weight of his coat. He wondered suddenly what other secrets Molly held. What did she really see, what did she know... He knew her father had died of cancer. That her mother was kind but distant. She was a brilliant scientist, that's why he always turned to her. She'd initially found him interesting and was willing to help him - when most people just thought he was an ass. Before John even, Molly had been there, ever in the background, a true friend, not seeking any recognition for herself. Just waiting, willing to help.

Without saying a word, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply on the mouth. She was so tiny in his arms. So delicate. She stiffened, terrified and startled by his sudden proximity and warmth. He picked her up and walked into the flat, closing the door behind them with his foot. She dropped the coat, her arm still outstretched behind his back, as if reaching for something.

Her mouth was full and moist. His arms wrapped around her slight waist as he pulled her close to him, her small body absorbed into his embrace. She made a sigh, ever so soft, and her hands curled around the back of his neck. Slowly, she began to kiss him back. Gently moving her lips with his as they danced around on his mouth, tentatively and then passionately returning his advance. Her fingers clenched his dark hair, pulling his curls as she pushed deeper into his kiss.

They stood in the quickly darkening flat, lost in each other. Sherlock's mind screamed at him, sirens and shrieking seagulls, fog horns, his mother's tea kettle, the London traffic; all of it pounded at once, screaming in his head. Every mental block he had ever built, every emotional wall, logical outpost and barrier cried out as the tide of his desire breached them all; spilling out of him and into Molly as he parted her mouth with his tongue.

Suddenly, there was nothing else but her. The walls faded, the windows, draperies, and furniture all evaporated into a space devoid of everything but Molly. He made his way along her cheeks, kissing her ears, the top of her nose, then back to her inviting mouth, her lips parting again with a sigh as he found her tongue with his. Her hands clasped his neck as he moved to kiss her neck, so slight and taut — her arms reaching up and around him as he bent down to brush his lips across her clavicle. His hands reached under the back of her shirt, slowly pulling it up until they came to rest on her the flesh of her waist. She inhaled as he moved his large hands up and down the softness of her back, his fingers tracing her spine and shoulder blades. Both hands pressing her chest into him.

She moaned. "Sherlock…"

He moved his hands to her sides, gently tracing the ridges of her ribs. She shuddered. "Sherlock… please… please…"

"Don't," she whispered.

Instantly he stiffened, but didn't pull away. His warm mouth moved to her ear, but he didn't want to release her.

"Do you want to stop?" He asked.

She sighed as she gripped the back of his shirt, their bodies too close to make eye contact.

"No." She shook her head. "But you have to know… I can't…" she tried to choke out the words.

He pulled back and looked into her eyes, clasping the sides of her face with his hands. Her cheeks were covered in tears. She used one hand to wipe her face and looked into his eyes, "Sherlock. I…" She looked down at his chest, her fingers tracing the circles of his buttons. "I can't do this… if it… if it isn't going to change anything."

"What do you mean?"

She looked up at him. "I love you Sherlock," she let out a nervous laugh. "You know I do. And I would do anything for you. But I can't have this be your apology. I can't do this… if you're not willing to…" she sighed as she struggled to continue.

"Not willing to what?"

"Take it seriously," she stammered.

"I need more from you than just friendship and an apology kiss," she continued. "I need a relationship. If we are… you know… together… and then tomorrow, you just go back to Baker Street and back to John and back to… cases and Lestrade and experiments…" She hesitated. "I can't do that. I need more from you than that. I can't be just a part of your entourage, Sherlock."

He pulled her cheek to his chest and rested his chin on the top of her head. "I know," he said.

They held each other for a moment.

She hugged him deeply. "Thank you for understanding," she said as she stood back slightly, straightening his shirt and wiping her hands along his chest as she smoothed out the wrinkles caused by their embrace. It was better to stop now before she allowed herself to be hurt any further.

But he didn't release her. Instead, he leaned down again and kissed her mouth, softly, gently. Cusping her face with his hands.

"Molly, I don't want things to go back to the way they were," he whispered. "I want something more." His breath was hot on her face and she could feel the tears coming again, surging out of her, beyond her control. "I need more," he said. "I want… more."

He could feel her body shake as he held her. Tears ran down her cheeks and along the ridges of his hands. He kissed her again, pulling her mouth to his. She relaxed into his grasp as he held her. She was warm and soft, every part of her opening up as he touched and kissed her mouth and then the nape of her neck. She leaned her head back as he moved down her clavicle, kissing the top of her chest and sternum. Her little moans encouraged him as he explored her creamy flesh. He could see the tops of her breasts as he kissed her neck; so white and inviting; awaiting the warmth of his tongue.

With a deep moan, he picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. Shooing the cat off the bed, he set her down on her back, leaning onto her and she writhed beneath him. Both her knees bent as she straddled him, the length of him moving back and forth along her body as he undid the top button of her shirt and kissed deeper on her chest. She arched her back into him as one hand worked it's way down her shirt, releasing all the buttons, his free hand cupping the base of her breast while his mouth played along the delicious crescent. She shrieked a little as his tongue moved down to find her nipple; his rich, wet warmth engulfing her areola. She moved her hands to pull off her shirt. He repositioned as she worked her way out of her top and bra.

Molly had known Sherlock to be so many things. He was clever, shrewd, unkind; simultaneously brilliant and obtuse. She'd watched him inspect others, dissecting mannerisms, conversations, gestures and expressions as he gleaned information. She'd seen him evaluate a crime scene and pronounce a resolution within five minutes. She'd watched him analyze data at the lab, spending hours in front of a microscope to determine the exact type of algae on a deceased sailor's boot. But she'd never seen him look like he looked now. There was a fire in his eyes that hadn't existed before. She'd known Sherlock to be angry, frustrated, happy, engaged, mocking and even funny. But she'd never seen him hungry. The hunger in his eyes radiated as she arched her bare chest into him, reaching her hand around his neck to pull him down on top of her. His mouth began again at her lips and then moved down… searching, stopping, slowly making it's way to her nipples. Her knees straddling him again. She threw her head back and moaned loudly as he cupped her nipple with his mouth. His hands behind her shoulder blades, pushing her into him. Her pelvis rocked back and forth as he swirled his tongue around the soft nipple, playing with it until it stood upright, completely under his spell.

"Oh, Sherlock." The guttural moan didn't sound like Molly, and he liked the rough, throaty quality of her voice.

He moved his mouth down her navel and played in her bellybutton with his tongue for a moment. His mouth sucking on the soft part of her navel, tickling and arousing her flesh. She reached her hands down and began to play with the buttons of his shirt, trying to get them undone. He smirked at her difficulty. Sitting up, he began to undo each button, working down as she watched him. He was such a paradox; she'd always admired how he dressed — classy, almost provocative — and yet his demeanor was so blatantly asexual. He wore the same outfit whether going to the loo, the lab, or the police station. She'd often wondered what he looked like under that starched shirt. Sometimes when he moved the buttons would pull open slightly and she'd have to look away. Now, as she watched him undress, she realized his hands were shaking. He finished the last button, pulled the tails of his shirt out of his trousers and dropped it on the floor. His chest was defined and taut, with minimal hair. His skin was clear; creamy, rich and untarnished. She reached up to touch him, running her fingers across the ridges of his pectoral muscles and down his chest. He noticed her looking and came back down on her, his naked flesh engulfing hers. She moaned as he moved his chest back and forth along her breasts.

"Molly," he said as he licked her nipples with his muscular tongue. "I'm sorry I've hurt you in the past."

He moved down to her navel again.

"I'd like to make it up to you."

She ran her hands through his hair, his dark curls spilling out of her fingers. She could smell his hair as she curled forward to kiss the top of his head, inhaling the richness of his scent. "Sherlock, you are all I have ever wanted in the world."

He pulled at the snap on her jeans, popping it open and reaching around to pull her trousers off her hips. She arched up as he peeled her trousers and knickers off. He then moved his mouth back down, down, down, licking her moistness with his warm tongue. She writhed in pleasure, pressing her heels down into the bed as he penetrated deeper. She grabbed at his hair, moaning and rocking with pleasure.

He stood up to remove his own trousers. She watched as he stood in front of her, exposing all of himself, his clothes dropping to the floor. She moved further up on the bed as he crawled up after her. He hesitated, looming over her on all fours.

She wondered at his hesitation.

"Are you okay?" she asked. His leaned down, resting his forehead on her chest, his hands holding the outside of her thighs. "Sherlock, do you want to stop?" She kissed the top of his head again.

"No, Molly." He looked up at her. "I just don't want it to be over too fast."

She giggled a little. "Well, you know, we can just do it again. It's not like there's a limited supply."

He smiled and at that moment she had everything she wanted in life. He was the man she had dreamed of; hoped for; worried about; longed for; wanted… oh, how she had wanted him. How many hours and days and hopeless weekends had she wondered if this night would ever come. How many times had she sat in the lab, watching him work, wondering if he ever felt normal emotions: lust, arousal, desire…? Did he really have so much self-control that those things never registered in his mind?

She didn't know… she didn't know how or why he had been like that in the past. But now here they were, tonight, together in her bedroom.

"Sherlock I have loved you for so long. So, so long. I have waited so long." She shifted beneath him. Breathing deeply into his hair.

"I can't wait any longer…" she whispered.

He made a slight noise, almost a growl as he leaned forward and penetrated her. It was instantly deep and full and she cried out loud, grasping the bedding beneath her as he moved back and forth, in and out. "Oh my g—- Sherlock!"

He moved back and forth, his eyes locked on hers. The muscles in his chest flexed and tight, his hips thrusting. Grunting, panting, sweating. His mouth came down on hers again as their bodies moved together in one motion, melding, coagulating, merging. Finally, she arched up off the bed as all her muscles tensed and she came; her body seizing in one blissful transcendent movement. He kissed her cheeks as she stiffened, holding still for a moment to sustain her enjoyment. His tense body holding back until she was ready.

When she began to breathe again, he continued to move, deeply thrusting, his hair wet with sweat, his chest glistening. Back and forth, in and out, the arousal building as they worked together to unify their joint pleasure. She held his buttocks, grabbing the indentations of his gluteus muscle. Her small hands pressed into his flesh, her fingers working down towards his shaft, massaging and encouraging him until he couldn't contain it anymore. The years of holding back gave way as her warmth enshrouded him in it's rich, moist enclave.

He let out a loud groan that filled the room as he filled her body; all his angst, frustration, self-restriction evaporating as he surged into her. "Molly," he said, drips of sweat descending his nose. "Oh, God, Molly!" Every muscle in his body taut with pleasure as he pulsed and ejaculated. At that moment he was more alive than he had ever been. The fear of rejection, loss, pain; the need to control and restrict everything; the chronic emotional hedging — all the barriers crumbled. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he wasn't afraid.

Finally, he relaxed and lay on top of her. She rested her legs flat on the bed, his body softening as he rested his head again on her chest. The flat was dark now; only the kitchen light remained on where Molly had been feeding Rosamund before. The London darkness had crept in and with it came the stillness of evening.

Molly looked out into her kitchen, the bedroom door slightly ajar. She thought about this afternoon. John had called her to ask about Rosamund and she'd said sure. She'd played with the baby, wondering if she'd ever have her own. She'd read a newspaper while Rosie slept and then fed her dinner. She'd never considered that the evening would have ended like this; in bliss with the one man in the world she loved more than anything. She'd resigned herself to being the Godmother to Rosamund, friend to Mrs. Hudson and John, and occasional lab-partner to Sherlock Holmes. Her life was monotonous, but not unfulfilling. But, every so often she would catch a glimpse… An insight into what life could be. Every so often, Sherlock would look at her or smile, or say something kind and she considered what her life could be if only he didn't constantly throw up so many roadblocks and obstacles.

She'd sensed his need long before, the need to be understood, to be able to feel things freely without fear or rebuke. He was terrified of emotion. She'd wondered about Mycroft and his influence on Sherlock. He seemed to treat him as an eternal child — constantly susceptible to breakdowns and overdoses. Now she wondered if Sherlock used the drugs not to stimulate his mind but to numb his body - to quell his desire so he could sustain the physical restrictions he placed on himself. She'd never been with anyone so intense. Maybe the drugs weren't an escape from mental boredom, they were an escape from physical passion.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"How are you feeling, love? Would you like some coffee?"

"No thank you. I'm fine right here."

She played with his hair and walked her fingers up and down his muscular shoulders.

His breathing grew deep and regular. She hoped he would stay and sleep…here with her in her bed. She didn't want to move in fear that he would jump up, say, "Well, thanks for that!" before heading off into the night.

She ran her lips across the top of his head. "I love you," she whispered into his damp hair.

He shifted off her to lay on his side, pulling the blanket up over them. He reached over and gently moved a strand of hair off her face. Then he leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss, "I love you too, Molly."

Tears again. Damn those tears. She was trying hard to be strong. She didn't want him to know the depth of her feelings — afraid that would drive him away. He wiped the tears with his thumb and snuggled up against her, lying his head back on the pillow. Finally, relaxing enough to believe he was actually going to stay, she did the same. Then she pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and fell asleep.


End file.
